IN fifteen hundred and eighty-eight—
Name a braver year if you can—
’Twas a caravel, as the legends tell,
That passed from the sight of man.
Southward away, like an ocean bird,
On the breath of a northern blast,
Sailed the Bunch o’ Keys; and following seas
Laughed loud as they thundered past.
She struggled from moon to moon again,
While a hurricane round her leapt;
Till her master and crew aweary grew,
And murmured their Maker slept.
Then many an angry and fearful eye
Bent aglow on the vessel’s mate,
Where he moved in dread, with a hanging head
And a mien disconsolate.
This pitiful, haunted, haggard wretch
Was as friendless as man may be;
And upon his face lay the ugly trace
Of a secret agony.
When day departed they heard his cry
To the God of all power and might,
And his hollow groan, as he moved alone,
At the darkest hour of night.
He told his crime to the Evening Star
And a wandering wild sea-bird,
“They will bear my tale on the angry gale,”
He whispered when no man heard.
“They will cry my deed to the icy wind,
And the wind to the white-capped wave;
They will tell the sun the thing I have done
Far under his western grave.
“I slew a friend in his hour secure,
While a woman pointed the way;
And I saw the flood of his good heart’s blood
Leap red as the Judgment Day!”
That terrible deed they knew alone—
God and the Devil and the Dead—
Then a morning came, upon wings of flame,
And deluged the world with red.
“O, who shall tell?” cried the sailor-men,
“What this vision of woe can mean,
Filling sea and air with a gory glare
And the lurid clouds between?
“Red, as at rising or going down,
Reels the sun at the hour of noon,
And the stars by night are like sparks of light
From the bale-fire of the moon.
“Red are the hungry and steel-eyed sharks,
Where they swim in these crimson seas,
And horribly red, to her top-mast head,
Is the luckless Bunch o’ Keys.
“Now mad we grow, as a beast grows mad
When his eyes the red shambles see,
And it is not well that we suffer hell
For another’s villainy.”
Thus did they threaten, those sailor-men;
But the master cried, “God of grace!”
And pointed away to the dying day,
Where the sun sank down apace.
And there, from out circles of liquid flame,
Spread abroad on the ocean’s breast,
Ascended a Hand, like the sight of land,
From under the shining west.